


Tomorrow, You Will Weep When Light Fades From Heart And Dark Takes Its Place

by Zayrastriel



Series: Time Is A Mirror, Warped And Rotting [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, implied dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:43:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From next door and halfway across the world, Sherlock watches John fall.<br/>(Sherlock's counterpoint to <i>When Yesterday Dies</i>; and <i>Today Is A Sunburst...</i> - highly advisable to read this in order.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who were wondering what Sherlock was doing through all of this.  
> The second chapter will stretch into new material chronologically and probably resolve the 'verse.

When Mycroft’s caller I.D shows up on Sherlock’s phone barely a week after he’s left England – he’s now in Liechtenstein, in a tiny village on the outskirts of Vaduz that’s just invented running water – Sherlock doesn’t answer.

About half a minute later he receives a text, and curses satellite phones.

 _It’s about John_. _Don’t hang up.  
MH_

The next time his ringtone, movement 1 of Vivaldi’s _Winter_ , sings out, Sherlock cuts it off before the second note.

“What happened?”

Sherlock wishes later that he could have cut the call short, could have thrown the phone to ground and crushed it beneath his feet.

He’d told John once that he didn’t bother with unnecessary information. And this is unnecessary; more than that, it’s _irrelevant_. It won’t inspire him to move faster or work harder (not when he’s doing the best he can, more than he thought was possible even for him.)

But Sherlock also once told John that he didn’t care. Not about people. Not about anyone.

Sherlock can lie to anyone, but he refuses to lie to himself.

 

~~~

 

Mycroft calls again while Sherlock’s on the roof of a train, nursing second-degree burns and carefully not feeling guilt over the ten thousand who are dead now because he happened to walk into their town.

 _I’m a fully-functioning sociopath-_ LIE.

LIE.

 _I don’t care_.

LIE.

_Moriarty tried to kill me. Seriously tried to kill me._

TRUTH.

_He doesn’t need amusement anymore-_

LIE.

_He’s got something else to give it to him._

TRUTH.

“ _It wasn’t your fault_.”

“Lie,” Sherlock answers tonelessly; both about the fact that Sherlock signed the death warrants of ten thousand people, and about Moriarty having anal intercourse with Sherlock’s former roommate on Sherlock’s bed.

 _Irrelevant_ (TRUTH) _Idon’tcare_ (LIE.)

He can almost feel Mycroft’s shrug through the phone. “ _Perhaps_.”

“Definitely.”

Mycroft sighs, a sigh that says _overworked, frustrated, reluctantly scared_ with barely the most minute of tonal inflections differentiating it from _Sherlock’s being a little twat again_. “ _He’s not going to leave John alone_.”

“I know.”

“ _And it’s not because of you anymore_.”

“I know.”

The train pulls into Haifa late in the afternoon, but Sherlock’s long gone by now, stowed away in the back of a convoy truck that’s just been cleared to cross over into Jordan.

 _John_ ; it’s a word, a single word that says too many other things that make Sherlock’s head hurt.  It won’t go away, and so he rebuilds his mind palace around it, a throbbing ache that makes him restless to get off the truck, to do what he’s got to do, to get back home before it’s too late.

To tell John what he’d been foolish enough to think he could do later.

 

~~~

 

One of the cameras in 221B (that Mycroft planted and Moriarty is smugly, frustratingly aware of) captures in stark, haunting detail the image of John driving a knife through his leg, blank and unflinching.

Mycroft has to physically stop Sherlock from throwing everything to waste.

The next morning, he’s stopped two streets away from Baker Street, pull-pushed into a car by polite-but- _toostrong_ men and forced into the backseat next to Anthea or Andrea or whatever Mycroft’s little pet’s name is.

And so he watches from a cell of gold-red walls and silk sheets, a reluctant voyeur to John Watson’s fall.

 

~~~

 

He’s going to win.

He’s going to save John, the way John always saved him.

He’s going to win.

_Moriarty is at 221B again.  
MH_

It’s not a Tuesday.

That night, ensconced in a room in Bathurst, Australia, he breaks two of the strings on his violin (G and E, symmetrical and impossible) and half the bow hairs.

 

~~~

 

He’s almost done.

Two years and three months and he’s almost done but it’s _not fast enough_.

Mycroft still throws veiled insults his way via text or during the few phone conversations they have, but they’re not the same, not now that nothing he says can do more to Sherlock than is already happening to him.  Despite everything, Sherlock knows Mycroft cares about John, or at least respects ( _respected_ ) him for who he is.  He knows this frustrates Mycroft, that he can’t do anything, can’t make a move till Sherlock’s finished and _I can’t give up I have to win_ -

_John._

_John._

~~~

 

Moriarty promised once, long ago (so long ago it’s a dream, something he has to rummage around in his mind palace for) that he would burn Sherlock’s heart right out of him.

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” John whispers into the empty  apartment, “ _I’m sorry, Sherlock_ ,” and that’s a last record for Mycroft’s cameras as he clutches a box in his hands, a box of photographs and sweaters and Sherlock’s scarf and a lonely gun for an ex-soldier.  His clothing was moved the day before while John was at work, by faceless men and Moriarty grinning victory into the camera.

But it’s not true.  Moriarty hasn’t burned the heart out of Sherlock.

It’s just on _fire_ , and it’s a fire that isn’t going to go out until John is safe.

Two years, nine months and twenty days; that’s how long it’s taken for Sherlock to realise, really realise, that anything about John isn’t irrelevant, because if John isn’t Sherlock’s heart.

He _is_ Sherlock, and Sherlock is going to save him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making this into a 3-chapter finale instead of a 2-chapter one. Thanks for all the feedback, it's been really encouraging, and I hope you enjoy

Sherlock used to think that the most important thing was to bring down Moriarty; save John from being blackmail material, save John from getting hurt. 

That’s already happened now.  There’s no going back; no stopping that first night in their apartment, or the one in Sherlock’s bed, or the time John turned around and _accepted_.

But there are two years of friendship, two years of real connection because Sherlock knows with blinding certainty that John loved – _loves_ – Sherlock, just as he knows that he loves John.

And so he doesn’t bother with subterfuge, doesn’t bother with anything.  Moriarty knows that Sherlock’s slowly but surely destroyed his networks, destroyed everything while he’s been occupied with tearing down John; and so when Mycroft sets off a diversion that they all know is a diversion, Moriarty has no choice but to leave the house that John now lives in with him, grandiose and spacious and as far from the crowded warmth of 221B as is possible.

Sherlock doesn’t bother with subterfuge.

He knocks on the door, finds it open, enters. 

John’s eating breakfast in the kitchen, already looking Sherlock’s way when he enters.  He doesn’t move, he _stills_ , every bone and muscle and tendon locking in place and then reactivating, ready for flight or fight or anything.

“I’m home, John,” Sherlock says quietly, and then he wishes he hadn’t because there’s _everything_ in those three words.

Three years, nine months and twenty five days.  Rage, impotent fury, sorrow, regret, guilt, fear, horror, love.

All.

John tilts his head slightly.

“Welcome home, Sherlock” he replies, his own bundle of overpowering grief and joy and despair joining the echoes that Sherlock has left in the spacious room.

* * *

 

They don’t embrace.  But somehow, Sherlock finds himself sunk to the floor next to John, just under the stove, fingers entwined despite the good foot of space between them.

“Did you beat him?”

Sherlock nods, knows that despite three years, nine months and twenty five days, John will still register the movement as easily as he always has, as though when Sherlock moves he does too, just like Sherlock fancies he’s felt every stroke of Moriarty’s fingers, every thrust of his hips.

“Hmm.”  John’s fingers tighten slightly.  “Good.”

“Will you leave him?”

“No.”

He expected that, but it hurts just the same.

“Alright.”

For three torturous, blissful minutes, he lets himself absorb the warmth of John’s skin, the solid strength of his muscles.  And then he pushes himself to his feet, looks down at his former roommate.  “I’d best be gone before Moriarty gets back.”

John nods.  “Fair enough.  I’ll see you out.”

They don’t say another word till they’re at the door and Sherlock turns to face his best friend with nothing to say, nothing on his lips or in his mind at all.

The shorter man’s forehead creases in a frown, frustrated but amused with a surprising lightness that warms Sherlock’s heart in a way that nothing has in almost four years.  “Bugger this.”

And then he reaches up, yanks Sherlock down to meet his lips too, too briefly.

“Dinner tomorrow at that Italian place you took me to that first night?” John asks gruffly.

 _What about Moriarty?_ Sherlock means to ask.  _It’s not safe_ , he wants to add.  _You don’t want me_ , rises to his lips, a bitter accusation that he knows isn’t true except in a very specific, slight way that still rends at his heart.

Instead, he says “Alright.  Eight o’clock?”

“Don’t be late,” John smiles wearily, as though he’s sure Sherlock will be late anyway, the way he always is.

He doesn’t close the door till Mycroft’s car has turned the car, Sherlock knows.  Hates John for it, almost as much as he loves him.


	3. Chapter 3

“Hello, Sherlock,” Moriarty says when Sherlock walks through the door shirtless, torn bloodied ( _useless_ ) remnants of purple fabric clenched tight in his hand.  “We should talk,” smiles the ex-arch criminal (at least in Britain, for Moriarty no doubt has networks in America and Australia and Asia that Sherlock has neither time nor effort to spend disrupting.)

(Three years to permanently shatter Moriarty’s hold in Britain and Western Europe.  Three years and a lifetime of possibilities, of _happiness_ – destroyed.)

The first thing Sherlock notes is the clothing: the exact image of _Jim-from-I.T_ ’s, down to the underwear.  There’s enough of a stir within him (anger, amusement, weariness) at the sheer audacity of that to register on his face.

Moriarty raises an eyebrow.  “Surprised to see me?”

Sherlock, who has been anticipating this visit with a peculiar numbness that is so very different to the lethargic high drugs used to provide, acknowledges his arch-nemesis ( _former arch-nemesis?  Hard to know_ ) with little more than a slight nod of his head before heading to the large box he’s using for his clothes.  John used to badger him till he capitulated and folded them (or else, would just lose patience and do it himself).

There’s no John Watson at Baker Street anymore, though.  No one to complain, and just for that Sherlock throws the damaged cloth into the bin.

“You’re looking for a shirt?” the man asks with some amusement as Sherlock pulls out the first thing he can find.  “I didn’t think you were so shy, _darling_.”

He’s meant to play, he realises.  He can’t, though.  The last time he saw Moriarty, after all, there was something to fight for.  There was John (and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson but John the most). 

The game isn’t fun anymore, now that there’s no _point_ -

“Oh, don’t do that,” Moriarty says suddenly, with what Sherlock is surprised to hear is _real_ frustration.  It shows on his face, too, when Sherlock turns around; genuine and surprisingly painful to see, that raw emotion etching lines into his face.  “You used to be so much _fun_.”

Sherlock shrugs as he slips his hands through the arm holes and begins doing up the buttons, slowly and steadily.  “Perhaps,” he says quietly, averting his eyes from the other man.   _And then John happened_ , he thinks but doesn’t vocalise.  _And don’t you agree, Jim?_ “What do you want?”

Even without looking, he can _feel_ Moriarty rolling his eyes before the slight creak of the couch indicates that the criminal has relaxed back into the couch.  “To talk about what we’re going to do with John.”

“Ah.”

“Clever move, really,” Moriarty continues.  “Showing up at my house and knocking on the door, letting him _see_ you.  There’s no way I could kill you after that.”

Sherlock would say something about how it wasn’t a move – that there was nothing in it more than the overwhelming desire to see John, to know he was _alright_ , even if he wasn’t _okay_. 

He shrugs.  “You still could,” he says – suggests, almost.  “You did before, and he still chose you.”

“Don’t be like that,” the other man retorts.  “You know he’d sulk.  And Stockholm Syndrome only works once.”

Again, there’s something on the tip of his tongue – a jibe about Helsinki Syndrome, perhaps.  But he swallows it because Moriarty has most likely seen the link, just like Sherlock knows exactly where Moriarty is heading with this vaguely threatening ramble.

Nevertheless, it’s still more than somewhat of a surprise when Moriarty sighs.  “You get him during the day. He has dinner with me, and his nights are mine.  I think that’s generous enough.”

“…I beg your pardon,” Sherlock says slowly, tearing his gaze away from his fingers (still doing up the shirt, fiddling pointlessly with each button before slipping it into place) to stare with as controlled an expression of incredulity as he can manage.

“Oh, _fine_.  You get dinner on weekdays,” Moriarty concedes with a roll of his eyes.  “But I want him home by 9.”

“I don’t understand.”

That’s a lie of course, and they both know it.  Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty are, after all, the same man (or mirror opposites and really, what’s the difference?)  He can’t pretend surprise at this solution, for it’s one of a million that crossed his mind.  The only surprise, and a paltry one, is that Moriarty has been able to supress his ego enough to even consider this idea, let alone settle upon it.

And sure enough – “don’t play _normal_ ,” the criminal tells him.  “It’s reasonable.  You’re not happy, he’s not happy, and I’m definitely not happy.  You can’t imagine how frustrating it will be to not have dear Johnny over the kitchen table-“

“Don’t talk about him like that.” 

 _Damn_.  Sherlock recognises the mistake as soon as he says those words – too much emotion.  Too much caring.

Not that he can bring himself to regret it, of course.  John’s done that to him, made him human.  It’s what he dislikes most about what John has done to rewrite his life, and what he holds closest to himself.

“I’ll talk about him how I want,” Moriarty says, but there’s a shadow of what can’t be guilt in his eyes.

 _He’s got us both,_ Sherlock thinks.

“Probably,” Moriarty agrees.  “But vice versa.  And that’s what’s perfect about this.”

“What makes you think that John will even agree to this…arrangement?”

Moriarty snorts.  “Of course he will.  He needs me, but he wants you.  You need him, and I want him.  It’s a lovely, inconvenient but indispensable triangle.”

The worst part is that he’s right.

Of course he is.  After all, Sherlock is Moriarty and Moriarty is Sherlock.

Together they’ll tear John Watson apart as the world turns its gaze.

* * *

 

John knocks on the door the next morning and dumps a neatly folded basket of clothes in the corner of Sherlock’s bedroom (as Sherlock surmises after he emerges from the morning paper long enough to triangulate the way they thud to the floor. “Don’t touch them,” he warns, pointing an accusing finger at Sherlock. 

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock drawls, turning his head to look at the older man as he emerges from Sherlock’s room.  “They wouldn’t fit, anyway.”

“Never stopped you before,” is John’s muttered retort as he goes to flop onto the couch.  “Anything interesting in there?”

He makes a show of checking the time, even craning his neck to view the clock.  “Oh, I estimate the police will be here in….three, two, one-“

Perfectly on cue, a siren blares out.

“Wonderful.  Three men of the same height, colouring and, well, face, have been found in three different alleyways in three different parts of the city.  At the same time.”  Sherlock bounds to his feet and to the door, only turning at the last minute to eye the doctor.  “Coming, Doctor Watson?”

John sighs.  “Do you even have to ask anymore?”

* * *

 

Sherlock annoys the police, ignores Molly’s pitiful attempts at flirting (which he doesn’t understand since he’s fairly sure she’s about to accept the proposal of a fellow mortician), almost gets them arrested (twice), and solves the case by 6pm sharp. 

(With a gun to the head and a desperate prayer that John’s not lost any semblance of competence over the past three years, but still.)

(It turns out, he hasn’t.)

He does so well, John does so well, they’re both so perfect at this that when Sherlock suggests they turn on the TV for the late-night game shows they used to watch (Sherlock criticised, John tried not to laugh), John gets halfway through an acceptance before…

“Of co…Sherlock, you know I can’t.”  And just like that Sherlock’s smile has faded, all the humour’s gone from John’s face, and all the glimmering _potential_ shows itself for what it is.

Glass shards from the proverbial bottle, with the ship of dreams it used to hold long gone.

(Sherlock hated English in school and loathes metaphors.  He’s well aware that his need some work.)

“I know.”

John shakes his head slightly.  “I’m sorry.  I’m-“

“If you’re not here to make my tea tomorrow morning,” Sherlock cuts in, “I’ll steal Lestrade’s badge again.” It’s a mix of pitiful and heart-warming, the brief flash of relief in John’s eyes.

* * *

Sherlock isn’t happy.

He isn’t satisfied.

The few, brief times he encounters Moriarty (a fight over who gets his birthday, the anniversaries, Christmas, Easter) he sees enough in Moriarty’s eyes to be satisfied, if bitterly so, that Moriarty isn’t happy either.

He isn’t even satisfied.

As for John –

 _It wasn’t going to be any different_.

But this is who they are, this is how they are.  Sherlock solves crimes. Moriarty causes them, though no longer in England or Europe.

And John –

John dies, slowly and quietly.

* * *

**_Epilogue_ **

_Moriarty always said he’d burn the heart out of Sherlock._

_Sherlock didn’t realise it’d be this slow, this silent._

_Moriarty didn’t realise that burning the heart out of Sherlock meant burning the heart out of himself._

_John didn’t realise it was him that would be burning, insidious and far too bittersweet; from too much love, cruel and cold and never faltering._


End file.
